Cut

  Ruby’s sitting down, knitting, something pink, maybe a baby blanket. As I watch her knobby hands fly over the yarn in time with the whish and click of the knitting needles, I wonder what Ruby does when she’s not at Sick Minds. If she’s somebody’s grandmother, maybe, or somebody’s next-door neighbor.

  She smiles when she sees me. “Need an escort to the laundry room?” she says.

  I keep my gaze locked on the pink thing unfurling beneath her knitting needles.

  “Yes, indeedy,” she answers herself. “Give me a sec. OK?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “OK,” she says.

  Like Sam, Ruby doesn’t expect me to say anything. She’s happy to do the talking for both of us. I lean against the desk and watch while she sweeps the yarn around her finger and finishes off a few more stitches. Then she puts her knitting on the desk and hoists her short, dense body out of her chair. Her keys jingle and she says, “OK, baby. Let’s go.”

  I try to figure out the right amount of space to keep between us as we walk down the hall. At first I stay close to the wall. But that feels wrong, so I move closer and try to match my stride to Ruby’s; I bump into her, then veer away. After that, I stay next to the wall. When we get to the stairs, Ruby holds the door open, then lets it fall shut behind us. We’re in our own small world now, the hushed world of the stairway, where all the noise from the dorm—the constant music and talking and TV voices—doesn’t exist.

  She stops a second and holds out her hand. In it is a small butterscotch candy, the kind my Gram used to keep in a dish in her living room.

  “Go on, take it,” she says. “It’s all right. You’re not one of those food-disorder girls, right?” She tucks the candy into my hand. “Right.”

  “Besides, a little something sweet never hurt anybody,” Ruby says. “I may not have a degree in psychology, but I know some home truths.” She taps the space between her breasts, as if that’s where home truths might be stored.

  When we get down to the laundry room, Ruby unlocks the cupboard where the detergent is kept; then she leans against the wall and watches as I put my jeans and shirts in the wash, measuring and remeasuring the soap powder, arranging and rearranging the clothes, and hoping Ruby will say more about her home truths.

  But she doesn’t. All I hear is the sound of plastic crinkling as she unwraps a butterscotch candy for herself. “All right, baby,” Ruby says when I close the lid of the washing machine. “Let’s get ourselves back upstairs.”

  On the way back up, we pass a fire exit sign with a diagram and a big red arrow next to the words YOU ARE HERE.

  And I wonder, if Sick Minds was on fire or something, would I be able to scream?

  There’s a lot of crying here at night. Since there are no doors on any of the rooms, the crying—or moaning, or sobbing—floats out into the hallway. Sometimes I lie in bed imagining a river of sobs flowing by, leaving little puddles of misery on each threshold.

  When I first got here, I spent a lot of time trying to identify the crier by voice and location. Someone nearby mews like a kitten. That, I think, is Tara. Someone down the hall has a choppy cry that starts out sounding like laughing. That, I’m pretty sure, is Debbie. But after a while I decided that trying to guess which crying went with which girl just made it harder to fall asleep.

  So I came up with a game that helps take my mind off the crying.

  It’s simple. I lie there and focus all my attention on the sound of Sydney’s breathing. Sydney, who falls asleep right after lights out, sleeps on her back, her mouth wide open. If I listen hard enough, I can hear her breath go in with a slight ahh sound, and out with a hah sound. And if I try really hard, I can tell the exact moment when the inhale turns into an exhale.

  Today, when Ruth walks me to your office, she hangs around longer than usual, kicking the toe of one sneaker with the other. I kick the toe of one sneaker with the other, notice that we’re doing the same thing, and stop. Ruth stops too, then takes her hands out of her pockets one at a time, and clasps them in front of her. Slowly she lifts her chin, until finally, after a lot of effort, she’s looking at me straight on. Then she smiles.

  A smile seems out of place on Ruth’s blotchy red face, like it’s something she doesn’t do very often, like it’s something she’s practicing.

  And I try to let her see, by not looking away, that I don’t mind if she practices on me.

  Then she’s gone and I’m listening to her shoes squeak back to the ward.

  You lean forward in your dead-cow chair; I pull back.

  “I have a theory,” you say.

  I decide then that I want to know exactly how many stripes there are on your wallpaper. Tan, white. Tan, white, tan, white.

  “It’s just a hunch,” you say.

  Tan. White. Tan. White.

  “I don’t know why you’re not speaking to anyone …”

  The stripes turn faint and it’s hard to see where the tan stops and the white starts.

  “But I would guess that not talking takes an enormous effort.”

  I picture myself running after school, something that takes a lot of effort, at least at first. After about the first mile, though, the white-out effect would kick in. I’d stop noticing the trees, or the road, or whether it was cold, or even where I was going. It was like someone came along with a giant bottle of white-out, erasing everything around me. Sometimes I’d even forget I was running and all of a sudden I’d see a building or a road I’d never seen before and I’d realize I’d gone too far. The white-out effect had stopped. I’d turn around and run home then, wondering if I’d have the energy to make it.

  “It must take a lot of energy,” you say.

  I blink.

  “Not talking. It must be very tiring.”

  I watch granules of dust slowly drift through a shaft of afternoon sun, and all at once I am tired. Something inside me sags, like a seam giving way. But my brain fights back.

  My mom’s the one who gets tired. My mom and Sam. My mom gets tired washing everything with antibacterial spray and making special food for Sam and scrubbing the lint out of all the filters and air-vent covers to keep Sam from having an asthma attack, so tired that sometimes she has to rest all day. And Sam sometimes gets so tired just getting ready for school that he has to go straight back to bed.

  Which means staying absolutely quiet when I get home from school so they can rest. Which could be for ten minutes or ten hours. Which means it’s up to me to do the spraying and cleaning. Which still doesn’t stop Sam from having an attack. Which means he could be in the hospital for a couple of hours or a couple of days. Which means my mom will stay there around the clock, until she gets so tired she has to come home and rest. Which means it’s up to me to do more spraying and cleaning. Which means I just don’t get tired.

  “… you’re in a situation here where a lot of things are beyond your control.”

  I look up and it occurs to me that you’ve been talking all along.

  “Just about everything you do here is determined by forces outside your control—what time you get up, how often you go to Group, how often you come to see me. Am I right?”

  I understand now that you’re talking about Sick Minds; I go back to counting the stripes on the wallpaper.

  “Sometimes when we’re in situations where we feel we’re not in control, we do things, especially things that take a lot of energy, as a way of making ourselves feel we have some power.”

  The tan and white stripes melt together.

  “But Callie.” Your voice is so quiet, I have to stop counting a minute to hear it. “You’d have so much more power … if you would speak.”

  Usually I try to be the last one to use the bathroom in the morning. That way, I don’t have to see the other girls looking all soft and sad the way people do after they’ve been dreaming. This morning, though, when I walk past Rochelle, the bathroom attendant, I see Tara standing at a sink in her nightgown and baseball cap, putting on makeup. I pick the sink farthest away and ma
ke a big deal out of putting toothpaste on my brush.

  After a while I stand back at just the right angle so I can see, down the row of mirrors, a dozen reflections of Tara. Tara taking off her baseball cap. Tara touching a comb gingerly to her head. Tara arranging thin, colorless strands of hair around a bald spot. Something about that bare patch of scalp makes me feel so bad I have to turn away.

  “Think we’ll make it in time for breakfast?”

  I study the column of water streaming out of the faucet. From the corner of my eye, I see that Tara has put her baseball cap back on; she’s talking to me.

  “We better hurry,” she says. “Debbie says we’re having pancakes.” Tara’s voice is surprisingly deep and womanly, considering she weighs only 92 pounds. Last week in Group she announced that this was a new high for her. A couple of people clapped. She cried.

  I turn up the water full blast and stare at it like something about it is very, very important. I can’t see Tara, but I can feel her standing a few sinks away watching me and suddenly I feel bad giving the silent treatment to someone who weighs only 92 pounds and has to wear a baseball cap to cover up a bald spot.

  The rushing water gets louder, then softer, then louder Tara moves toward the door where Rochelle is sitting on the orange plastic chair, reading People magazine.

  “Do you really want us to ignore you?” There’s nothing mean about the way Tara says this; there’s nothing in her voice except curiosity

  I waste as much time as I can brushing my teeth. Eventually, she’s gone.

  Today is linen-exchange day. All of us guests have to line up in the laundry room and hand in our old sheets and towels and get new ones. Everyone displays Appropriate Behavior during linen exchange, probably because Doreen, the custodial worker in charge, takes it very seriously Each week she hangs hand-lettered signs all over the laundry room, signs with lots of capital letters and exclamation points. “Line forms to the right of the Attendant!” says one. “Please have your linens ready for Presentation to the Attendant!” says another.

  I’m standing in line—to the right of the Attendant, with my linens ready for Presentation—when Sydney and Tara come up behind me. I can tell from the cigarette smell that they’ve just come in from the smoking porch, where everyone else hangs out between sessions.

  “Hi, S.T.”

  Heat creeps up my cheeks. I feel bad not talking to Sydney, since she always says hello to me like I’m a normal person. I hold myself rigid and wait.

  “These signs crack me up,” Sydney says after a while. I relax a little, once I figure out she’s talking to Tara “This one’s my favorite.”

  I can’t help but listen in.

  “ ‘Guests are kindly requested to refrain from removing their mattress pads at the end of their stay.’ ” Sydney reads Doreen’s sign in a deep, official-sounding voice. “Like someone’s going to say, ‘Hmmm. What souvenir can I bring home from my stay at Sick Minds? Oh, I know! A mattress pad!’ ”

  I picture Doreen, suddenly, in a tug-of-war with someone over a mattress pad. I can see Doreen pulling the emergency alarm, then rolling around on the floor trying to wrestle one of her beloved mattress pads away from a guest. A giggle creeps up my throat. I swallow. A fullfledged brawl is raging in my mind’s eye, with guests and attendants slugging it out over mattress pads. I bite the insides of my cheeks. I dig my nails into my palms. It’s no good. I bolt out of line and run for the steps.

  “Where are you going?” Doreen yells. “That’s a violation, you hear?”

  The door swings shut behind me and I’m in the cool, muffled world of the hallway. I take the steps two at time, stomping so hard that the echo drowns out the strange, stifled sound of me trying not to laugh.

  The attendant in the game room that night is one I’ve never seen before, young, smily and obviously new. She says hi and asks if I want to play Scrabble. “How ‘bout Trivial Pursuit?” she says. “I’m really good at that.”

  I get out the Connect Four box and sit down with my back to her. Then I start playing against myself. I imitate Sam’s lateral thinking strategy, making moves all over the place, instead of starting with the same opening move and the same boring way of trying to build an obvious straight line. After a while the smily young attendant gets up and leaves to talk to another attendant at the desk, keeping an eye on me through the window.

  Soon the Connect Four grid is a hopeless mess of red and black checkers; there are blocked rows everywhere and no way to make a straight line. I’m staring at the game when a shadow comes over the table.

  You’re standing next to me suddenly, in a long blue coat and scarf, holding a purse and keys. I sit up—and wait for you to tell me, in your real-life clothes, with your car keys and your house keys, that you’re leaving, that you’re quitting, that you’re giving up on me.

  But you don’t say anything. The room gets warmer and warmer and the minutes stretch out and fold back on themselves the way they do in your office and you just stand there, tapping your upper lip with your index finger and studying the game. I decide to pretend I don’t care that you’re there.

  I pick up a red checker, hold it a minute, poised to drop it into the center slot, then pull back, seeing right away that this would be a dumb move. I move the checker, hold it above another slot, study this possibility, and see that it would be a mistake, too. Finally I put the checker on the table, lean back, and hide inside my hair.

  You shift your weight from one foot to the other and I catch a hint of fragrance. It’s a cool, familiar smell, sort of like the lavender sachets my Gram used to make.

  You pick up the red checker and drop it into a slot on the end. All at once a diagonal row of four checkers appears—surprising and obvious at the same time.

  “There you go,” you say. “I think that’s the move you were looking for.”

  You rest your hand on my shoulder for just a second, and I feel sleepy suddenly, the way I did in your office this afternoon. Then you’re gone. I don’t play another round. I just sit in the game room until the last trace of lavender evaporates.

  The next day, after everyone else comes in from the smoking porch and we take our regular seats in Group, Claire announces that a new girl is joining us. She asks if someone will get an extra chair. “Put it there, please,” she tells Sydney. “Next to Callie.”

  I sit very, very still.

  The door squeaks open and the new girl comes in. She’s tiny, with dyed black hair held back in kiddie barrettes, red lipsticked lips, and the palest, whitest skin I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a sweatshirt.

  Claire gestures toward the empty spot next to me and invites her to sit down. The girl slides into the chair, then grabs the seat, scraping the legs back and forth on her little patch of floor, trying to get settled. Her chair bangs into mine. The impact reverberates all through me.

  “Oops,” she says.

  Claire asks if anyone is willing to make the introductions, but it seems like everyone has suddenly gotten shy. So Claire goes around the circle giving names but not issues.

  The new girl says her name so quickly I can’t tell if it’s Amanda or Manda. Then, when no one says anything, she says, “Jesus Christ, it’s hot in here.”

  Claire asks Amanda/Manda if she wants to tell us why she’s at Sick Minds. Amanda/Manda pulls off her sweatshirt; I feel every movement through my chair.

  There’s a gasp from across the circle. Debbie’s hand is clapped over her mouth and the other girls are staring at the new girl.

  Her sweatshirt is on the floor and she’s sitting there in a little white undershirt holding her arms out so everyone can see a geometry of scars crisscrossing her inner arm: scars in parallel lines running up to her elbow, bisecting lines, obtuse angles. Scratched into the skin above her wrist are words. In pink scar tissue on one arm it says “Life.” On the other it says “Sucks.”

  I pull my sleeves down around my thumbs and pinch the fabric tight.

  “I don’t really
need to be here,” she says. “Some dogood English teacher thought I was trying to kill myself.”

  There’s scattered fidgeting, then silence. “You’re not?” Sydney finally says.

  “As if,” Amanda/Manda says.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Beats me,” she says. Then, right away, “Low selfesteem. Poor impulse control. Repressed hostility. Right?” She addresses all this to Claire.

  Claire doesn’t answer, so Amanda/Manda turns back to Sydney. “Listen, I don’t see how what I do is so different from people who get their tongues pierced. Or their lips. Or their ears, for Chrissakes. It’s my body.”

  She glances around the circle; no one budges.

  “It’s body decoration. Like tattoos.” She keeps talking, like she’s been in the middle of a conversation that everybody else happened to walk in on. Like we’re new, not her. “It’s better than people who bite their nails till they bleed. I mean, they’re actually eating their own flesh. They’re like cannibals.”

  Tiffany, who bites her nails until they bleed, tucks her hands under her thighs.

  “I mean, why is everyone so upset? It’s freedom of expression, right?”

  I grind the hem of my sleeve between my fingers. The frantic barking of a dog rings in the distance. Amanda/Manda is saying something about an article she read in a magazine. I turn my head ever so slightly to catch the words.

  “You know, they used to bleed people all the time back in the old days,” she says. “When they were sick. It’s an endorphin rush.”

  “And …” All heads swivel in the direction of Claire’s voice. “Does it make you feel better?” Claire says.

  “Absolutely.” Amanda/Manda shifts in her chair. “It’s a high. I mean, you feel amazing. No matter how bad you felt before. It’s a rush. Like suddenly you’re alive.”